


Triage

by verucasalt123



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Blood, Injury, M/M, unsafe medical practices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2017-12-04 01:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verucasalt123/pseuds/verucasalt123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John resorts to using field medicine when Sherlock is injured and help is too far away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Triage

**Author's Note:**

> I must have been half-asleep when I wrote this, there were so many missing words and sentence fragments. Reposting with desperately needed corrections.

Finally, finally, fucking finally, there was quiet. John had managed to haul Sherlock into some industrial building which looked long abandoned but still had electricity. Out of the streets and under the harsh fluorescent lights, he finally had a chance to get a better look at Sherlock’s wound. 

Stripping off Sherlock’s coat and shirt was harder than he thought it would be due to the overwhelming amount of blood sticking to everything. They’d been in pursuit, on foot, of a man who had eluded the Yard’s attempts to find and arrest him for murder. As a result of his uncharacteristic fall from twenty feet up a fire escape while engaged in the aforementioned pursuit, Sherlock had sustained a gash to his left arm that was at least four inches long and deep enough that the fatty tissue under his skin was exposed. He’d had the presence to mind to send Lestrade a text consisting only of _‘GPS my phone, ambulance, now’_ , but they were well outside of the city, and John knew he wouldn’t be hearing sirens for half an hour at least. 

John gave himself approximately thirty seconds to panic, to kiss his lover ten times all over his face, to whisper assurances that Sherlock would never hear due to his current state of unconsciousness. It was instinctive, his almost (all right, not almost, and you can shut right the fuck up about that immediately) urgent and overwhelming need to comfort Sherlock. But not as instinctive as his training, his quick run-down of the possibilities, his gauging of possible consequences, and his determination to fix what was wrong. To _heal_. Sherlock’s blood pressure was low and getting lower by the minute, as was evident by John’s non-stop and obsessive pulse-checking, and there was a slight tinge of blue around his lips which would probably not have been noticed by someone other than a physician.

At the very least, he needed to tend to the triage – the evaluation of an illness or (as was the case on this particular occasion) an injury coupled with the most efficient way to head off the worst of the damage. Removing his t-shirt, he tied it tight above the long, ugly and still actively bleeding injury. First move, obviously. Since he’d have to get up, he couldn’t hold pressure on the damaged limb, so artificially stemming the blood flow was the next best thing. The sudden rush of cold air on his bare skin barely registered. Sherlock was losing blood rapidly thanks to the metal pole he’d hit on this way to the ground. Enough that he’d lost consciousness before they’d gotten more than a few blocks away. Luckily, John was stronger than he looked, and Sherlock was lighter than a man of his height ought to be, so John had been able to half-carry and half-drag Sherlock into the building where they were currently holed up.

Reluctantly moving away from Sherlock, he scanned his immediate surroundings. This had clearly been a factory of some kind, a plant, and as such, there was a chance that somewhere in this building, a nurses’ station existed. As quickly as he could, John moved through the rooms closest to them and before five minutes had elapsed, he found himself nearly shouting with joy. This was clearly the plant nurse’s domain, when the place had still been in operation. John started shoving gauze and bandages and suture supplies into his pockets, as well as two small bottles (one disinfectant, one vial of Bacitracin) when he spotted the other items. IV needles and valves, sterile alcohol pads, surgical tape. 

With almost superhuman speed, he was back at Sherlock’s side. First things first. Trying to distract himself from the overwhelming _not platonic_ feelings that were doing their damned best effort to work their way to the surface, he first cleaned the wound with an alcohol wipe, then proceeded to stitch it up methodically. His self-distraction technique involved imagining Sherlock being conscious while this was happening and letting loose an uncharacteristically filthy stream of profanity. Other than the times when they were engaged intimately, John had never heard Sherlock curse other than the rare “damn it” or something just as tame. He was grateful at that point that Sherlock wasn’t awake, because he knew how painful this was. He’d seen countless brave soldiers lying still in the sand of a battlefield and shedding tears when it was necessary to stitch a wound without the benefit of anesthesia. 

Once the stitches were in, all forty-eight of them (yes, John had counted every last one), the blood flow had ceased. Unfortunately, the loss of that blood had already taken its toll, which is why John had grabbed that last batch of supplies. It had been years since he’d done this, and he’d only done it twice. The first time didn’t count since it was just a test during his training, but the second time….that had been real and terrifying, but unavoidable. His lack of extensive expertise didn’t mean he’d forgotten the instructions and procedure, though.

Using another alcohol pad, he cleared a spot on the top of Sherlock’s left hand (there was a decent vein there, and John hated the idea of Sherlock with a needle in his arm, no matter that this was a different circumstance entirely). With dead-on accuracy, he slipped the IV needle into that vein and locked it in to the thin rubber tubing he’d found. Attaching the other IV needle to the opposite end of the tube, he took a deep breath and inserted it into the skin at the crease of his right elbow. Lying down on the floor directly next to Sherlock, John gently squeezed his right hand into a fist several times over, then finally saw what he’d been looking for. 

His own blood, running through the tube and needle, directly into Sherlock’s vein. 

He had no idea what Sherlock’s blood type was, which surprised him for just a moment, given all the medical treatment he’d given to his lover in their short time together. John did know, however, that he was type O negative, which was considered a universal donor and safe for anyone to receive except in very rare circumstances (oh, sweet Jesus, please don’t let this be one of those very rare circumstances), so he felt reasonably confident that this would help. 

The flow of blood from a live donor was obviously much slower than having it transfused by machine in a professional medical setting, but John had to at least hope it would help.

Staring at the tube connecting them, John had a fleeting thought about another level of intimacy the two of them had shared. As he became lightheaded and started to succumb to the dizzying effect of losing blood; his eyes fluttered, then closed against his will just a few seconds after he registered the sound of emergency vehicle sirens. 

John had only a fuzzy recollection of the troops marching in, ambulance technicians and crime scene officers and one exceptionally agitated Detective Inspector. Yes, you know the one. 

He’d started to get a clear head again once he and Sherlock were both lying down in the back of an ambulance. Coming back to his senses, he sat up and realized that the IV connection between them had been disconnected, replaced with a bag of hospital blood – one for him and one for Sherlock. Sitting up, he took in his surroundings and realized that there were medical personnel and police everywhere he looked. Standing out from the crowd, of course, was the aforementioned DI, their friend Greg Lestrade. 

Upon realizing that John was once again conscious, Greg helped him into a full sitting position. “You all right, John? Had me, I mean, had all of us worried for a few minutes there. You don’t have to sit up, you can lie back down.”

“No, I – I’m fine, I wasn’t injured, what is all this?” John asked, his head still a little fuzzy. He remembered the chase, the fall, finding the empty building. He knew he had tried to patch Sherlock up the best he could. And then…oh, the blood transfusion. That’s what all the fuss was about, regarding him at least. “Sherlock – he’s the one who was hurt, tell me what’s happening, has he been conscious at all?”

Lestrade wasn’t surprised that John’s first concern was for Sherlock. Everyone knew John was the only real friend Sherlock had, and he’d come to suspect their relationship went beyond the normal parameters of flatmates or pals. “He hasn't, no, he took a hell of a blow to the head. Nothing much more serious than the cut on his arm. I assume you sutured that yourself?”

“Of course I did, Jesus, he was bleeding like…Christ, he was practically hemorrhaging, there was so much. God. Just so much blood. How’d I do? We weren’t in an exactly proper or sterile environment.”

One of the ambulance techs overheard, and joined in to answer John’s question. “Lucky he was with a doctor when this happened, he was. Tying up his arm and getting him stitched kept him from losing too much blood, along with your makeshift transfusion. I’ve never seen something like that before. They don’t teach that when you’re training in my job.”

“Nevermind that. Greg, you said he knocked his head? Idiot, I’m such an _idiot_ , I didn’t even check for a concussion. I was so focused on the blood loss from the cut on his arm, it didn’t occur to me that he might have…Fuck. Fuck all. Is it serious?”

Before Lestrade could respond, the ambulance tech jumped in again. “There’s a knot by his temple, but his pupils are reactive and if I had to guess, I’d say the concussion was mild, relatively speaking.”

At this point, John looked to the side and gave Sherlock, who was lying down right next to him, a good once-over. His eyes were still closed and the bag of replacement blood was hooked into the IV needle John had placed there before, on the top of his left hand. 

“All right, John, everything’s all right”, replied Lestrade, his voice soft and gentle like it was when he was trying to calm an assault victim or the widow of a murdered man. For some reason, it made John bristle. 

“ _All right?_ Doesn't really look like it's all right to me. I am a doctor, you know. No reason to sugarcoat it for me.”

Lestrade sighed, knowing he wasn’t going to get around answering every question John had. “If we can manage it before he wakes up, we’re planning to take him to Saint Mary’s, just for observation, it’s the closest hospital. But as far as his arm injury goes, you did brilliantly. I’ve got to ask, though. The blood transfusion – that’s something you learned in Army training, I’m guessing?”

“Yeah”, John replied, “I only did it once for real before, and it was a couple of years ago. I hope it was at least slightly helpful, he’d lost so much blood, he was soaked in it…”

“We saw his clothes. I know it must have been bad. I have to ask, though; setting up something so risky, John, it’s just not like you. What were you thinking?”

The DI clearly didn't know John well enough if he had to ask.

“I was thinking, Greg, that I still had all of my blood and he needed some, and there was a way for me to get it for him. That’s it. I considered alternatives, but there weren’t any. It didn’t hurt me.”

“Seems like you wouldn't have given half a rat’s arse if it _would_ have hurt you”, Lestrade responded.

John wasn't going to justify that with a response. “Can’t believe it didn’t cross my mind to check for a concussion. Stupid.”

“You saw how much he was bleeding, it wasn’t stupid for you to have done what you did. The visible injury was foremost in your mind, that's just natural. You must know that, years of hospital and field training aside.”

John was about to respond when he noticed Sherlock stirring. His eyes were opening slowly and, of course, he immediately attempted to sit up. His attempt was aborted, though, since it was likely that he'd feel the world was inexplicably spinning around him. 

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed, hoping to keep the anxiety out of his voice. “Sherlock, my love, please, are you all right? Tell me you’re all right.” He leaned in close to press a kiss to his lover’s forehead, not caring even in the least that they’d never been affectionate like that in public. 

With more than a little slur to his voice, Sherlock responded. “I don’t remember much after I fell. My head hurts, and my arm…” He looked over and studied the long, sutured gash in his arm. “I’ve gotten patched up already then?”

Lestrade cut in before John had a chance to respond. “John stitched it up for you before we got there. Stopped the bleeding, and tried to help you replace the blood you’d lost.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, before turning his eyes on John. This time he managed to sit up at least halfway and hold himself steady with his hands. “John, I know you’re capable of repairing wounds like this, but helping to replace lost blood? What did he mean by that? What did you do?”

“Nothing, love, nothing drastic. Just found the necessary supplies and set up an IV to get some blood pumping into you while we waited for the authorities.”

“You…where did you get it? The blood? Where did it come from?”

For just a moment, there was silence. John finally explained, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t go mental at the news. “I hooked up an IV needle and tubing, connected you to me.”

Sherlock just stared. After a moment, he took in the bag of blood emptying into him in the back of the ambulance, then looked back again at John. “You gave me your own blood?” he asked, his voice quiet and eyes wide.

“I wasn’t injured, Sherlock. I've got a univeral donor blood type. It was not dangerous to me, and it was a necessity for you.”

“I don’t , uh…”, his words were still coming out slowly and measured as he sat up a little more. “Thank you. Just…thank you, John.” Now it was Sherlock’s turn to break the PDA rule as he moved his right arm and pulled John closer to him. With a sly grin on his face, he added, “My hero.”

“Oh for pete’s sake, darling, you would have done the same for me.”

“I wouldn’t. That’s just it. I don’t know how to stitch up a gash in someone’s limb, I don’t know how to go about taking my own blood and giving it directly to another person. Had this been the other way around, I couldn’t have done for you what you did for me.”

Flushing more than just a little, John answered, “I'd bet you would figure out how to do it on your own. But don't worry about that, you’re going to be fine and that’s all that matters.”

Lestrade was back at their sides then. Seeing Sherlock sitting up, he immediately had an ambulance tech fetch a shock blanket and wrap it gently around his shoulders.

And yes, it seemed Sherlock would really be just fine, as he pronounced with his usual air of indignance, “Again with the blankets, Lestrade, honestly? I’m not in shock or…or…anything. I’m just a little dizzy.”

“You hit your head, mate, we thought we’d just get you over to-”

“St. Mary’s? Forget it. Nothing they can do for me that I can’t get at home. I’ve got a doctor of my very own.” Turning his eyes back to John, seated next to him, “John will make sure my medical needs are being met, I assure you.”

Knowing it was a lost cause, Greg relented. After asking the ambulance techs to remove the IVs from both men if it was safe, he said “At least let me have an officer take you both home, all right? A taxi from out here will cost you a fortune.”

“Long as it’s not Sally”, Sherlock sullenly replied. Right, yeah, definitely getting back to his normal self, though his speech was still slow and he kept touching the goose egg on the side of his head. 

Once they got back to Baker Street, Sherlock valiantly tried to show his gratitude to John in a physical way, but John recognized his exhaustion and the after-effects of blood loss and concussion. Sherlock had unsuccessfully attempted to decline John’s offer of paracemetol before he allowed John to tuck him into bed.

Seconds from sleep, John heard Sherlock whisper, “Your blood is in me now.”

John didn’t reply, he just thought ‘Everything I am is in you’.


End file.
